


Dropping Coins

by simplemelodies



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Top Spock, relationships are more of a background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplemelodies/pseuds/simplemelodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tells his mother about Chris, says some old guy wants him to join the ‘fleet. Winona laughs, let’s a soft grin play across her face until Jim says, “I might do it.”</p>
<p>Five minutes later he’s on the porch with a suitcase full of clothes and a heart full of nothing. </p>
<p>“Get out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dropping Coins

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa hey.
> 
> First of all, thank you to the beautiful hyposaregoodforthesoul, hedgepuffductions, tarsusivy, and phasers2stunning for helping me pull this together. You're all way too awesome for words. 
> 
> Second, this was supposed to be way longer. Like...way. Longer. But I'm lazy. Except maybe it works out that it's so short? I don't know.
> 
> Third, and last, this is just something that I needed--Jim as he goes through Starfleet and the events of Nero. It's so choppy but I think I captured what I wanted to.
> 
> Please enjoy, you guys. And comments are always accepted and cherished. And heeded, if need be. Thank you!

_Honestly._

Sundays were hell. A certain kind of hell, where the beer is warm and even if it were cold you couldn’t drink it because shift started in two hours.

And that’s where Jim was, in the special Sunday kind of hell, downing a bottle of water and walking to work. _Bike’s in the shop_ , he’d told Lee. That bought Jim a couple extra hours before shift.

Not that he hated his job or anything, but it was nice to get a couple more hours of sleep when his head was pounding and the girl sleeping on him was _so warm_. But as soon as three o’clock rolled around, Jim was out of bed, kicking her out with a sad excuse for a goodbye. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Sure.”

He didn’t remember her name.

And now the sun was beating down on him, scorching his hair to be even more blonde, tingeing his skin a soft brown, forcing his eyes into a squint that make the muscles in his face scream.

It shouldn’t be this damn hot for March.

x

“Jimmy Boy, have a seat.”

Jim inwardly groans because “Jimmy Boy” is definitely not his favourite nickname. Because Jimmy Boy was something hollow and something slurred or shouted or screamed from the bottom of a grave. Jimmy Boy was a mark, not easy to get rid of. A tattoo, an open wound. So when Lee decided to start calling him that, he decided not to put up a fight, remembering past attempts to discourage the nickname and tirades that always tended to follow.

But Jim sits, stoic, unblinking at the bar, watching Lee pour a shot of Jack. “I assume this is--”

His employer cuts him off with a sound, “Happy birthday, Jim.”

And so the now-twenty-two-year-old tosses back the shot and blinks hard at the slow burn throughout his whole body, down to his toes.

x

He can’t move, can’t speak. Just stares at the glass like nothing has ever made him angrier—maybe because nothing ever has. James T. Kirk doesn’t get angry. No, he gets even.

But this time there’s no getting even with anybody, anything, because there’s nothing he is angry at. No one. Just the glint of his eyes and the curve of his mouth and, man, his hair needs to be cut again. He’s angry because he looks in that mirror and wants to hurl all of his birthday alcohol up his esophagus and into the sink before him.

Because the man staring back at him is dead. Gone. He’s been dead for twenty-two years and Jim can’t take it anymore. So he takes the bottle of whiskey Lee gave him this morning ( _take a load off kid, you deserve it_ ) and throws it—shatters the mirror in front of him and slices his hand deep but he doesn’t give a damn because at least George _Fucking_ Kirk isn’t smirking at him anymore.

And Jim, he feels a degree of satisfaction, breathes a sigh of relief. And then he feels the tears, hot behind the palms of his hands as he presses them to his eyes to stop, stop, stop them. And he doesn’t stop them. Because stopping them would only hurt more. Because there was a buildup of _something_ in his throat and he couldn’t breathe couldn’t see couldn’t think and dear lord at some point he just needed to _let go_.

So he takes a breath, closes his eyes against the glaring light of his bathroom, and stumbles drunk into his living room, to his stairs, to the upstairs hall where mother would keep the family portraits….and smashes them. Not all of them, he reasons, just the ones with that stupid heroic face.

It’s when all the pictures are gone that he realizes how loud it was; he hears the tinkling of glass hitting the floor, the wheezing of his breath in and out of his lungs due to exertion, the sobs escaping his throat because maybe he hadn’t pulled himself together after all.

x

An upside-down face and a really fucking loud whistle later and he’s talking to someone who calls him son, but this someone--doesn’t even know him. Shouldn’t know him. And why does he care if he’s alright? No one should care.

x

The blood splatter on the front of his gray tee is nothing new; the sore bruises smattering his upper arms and shins and cheekbones are like a warm blanket. Welcome.

An open face across the table, saying, “I dare you to do better.”

A part of Jim, thinking, _I can’t do any better than a martyr_ , another part, arguing, _A martyr, huh? I bet I could have saved them_ and _myself._

x

There was a time when Jim would have turned tail, ran away and not looked back, packed up without a word to his mother and gotten out. But this isn’t that time. This is Jim, twenty-two and somehow he feels brand new. He feels a fucking trench opening in his chest that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was--just hidden.

Except he’s too drunk to think about that now; too drunk to do anything but sit at the edge of a decades-old quarry and throw empty bottles down into the black abyss that used to be the home of one cherry red classic convertible. And there’s something in the hard words Chris Pike finally said, daring Jim to do better, something barely tangible but he heard it and remembers it now--something laced with concern and care and some understanding.

Understanding? Does anyone really understand Jim Kirk? Winona likes to think so, but that’s his mother, and really the only person who’s ever even tried to understand him.

If Jim’s not careful, the word _understand_ will be his least favourite.

x

He tells his mother about Chris, says some old guy wants him to join the ‘fleet. Winona laughs, let’s a soft grin play across her face until Jim says, “I might do it.”

Five minutes later he’s on the porch with a suitcase full of clothes and a heart full of nothing.

“Get out.”

x

The sun’s low on the horizon when Jim catches his first glimpses of the starship. He nods to himself, thinks, _One day_. And he’s gone, on some kind of mission to prove someone wrong (Pike? His mother? Himself?).

He climbs into the shuttle and hits his head on a low bar--because that’s a great way to start out a new chapter in his life. Some drunk homeless (except he can’t be homeless, right?) person is fighting with the attendants, something about flying and space disease.

When he gives the guy his name, there isn’t a double-take, only a returned gesture (a scoff and a gruff, “Leonard Mccoy”) and Jim thinks maybe, maybe this could be something that works.

x

Jim wants to pick up the pieces, weave back together any semblance of the person before him. He wishes to fix the puzzle that is his best friend, and then take him apart, piece by agonizing piece; under tongue and fingers and murmured word. He wants to see that broken part patched up, seared together until it’s whole again.

He wants to claim, soothe, torture, lovelovelove that flesh like his own, like he could suffocate without it. And when he catches a glimpse of those green eyes clouded with want and fear and lovelovelove, he is undone.

x

The heart on the floor is not his, Jim tells himself. The molted thing that’s been stepped on and tracked all across the apartment and into another’s heart is not something that used to reside in his chest.

But Jim knows.

x

She thinks she loves him, and that is _so weird._ This green bombshell, smartass, genius, fucking _beatiful_ woman thinks she is in love with James Tiberius Kirk, and that is so awful and weird and agonizing.

Jim shouldn’t be loved. Not after everything. Not after Tarsus, not after walking out on his mother, not after using someone for personal gain. _Using someone,_ he tells Leonard the next day, and he’s got his head in his hands and his heart in a box, because when did Jim sink that low?

x

“You, of all people, Cadet Kirk, should know--a captain cannot cheat death.”

Something sour settles in Jim’s chest and his bones creak when he turns his head away. “I of all people,” he mocks, like he can. Like he’s not in a room of admirals and cadets and there isn’t someone across from him who could rip his torso in half.

x

She’s. She’s beautiful, all soft curves and power.

x

Vulcan matters. One distress call from planet of pointy-eared know-it-alls and the entire ‘fleet is out to save them.

Tarsus? Tarsus didn’t matter. Tarsus was barren and caked blood on the soles of bare feet and a cold despair that leaked into Jim’s bones when he had to kill for the first time. Tarsus was spending nights buried beneath piles of limbs that were barely connected to bodies and days skirting around scout groups. Tarsus was waiting for help that did not come soon enough for Jim not to feel too-cold flesh under his palms.

x

Jim’s forced to take a class between the rebuilding of the _Enterprise_ and “The Incident”. That’s what they’re calling it in the news now. The Incident. Can’t even call it for what it was.

The Tragedy, The Massacre.

He meets Spock then, that asshole-with-the-eyebrows that kicked him off the _Enterprise_ when all he was trying to do was help. Something about it, though, the intensity of the situation, the way Spock--a Vulcan, something that _doesn’t feel_ \--crumbled after the death of his family, intrigued Jim.

Jim wanted to know this man, the alien, because for all Jim knew about Spock, he was an alien (in every sense of the word). So he takes the class, interrupts Spock’s lectures on thermodynamics (because who at the Academy doesn’t already know this?), makes sure his presence is known.

Jim gets under his skin, and that’s what he was aiming for.

x

“You’re beginning to get on my nerves, Spock.”

There’s a bite to Jim’s words—he knows it, and he knows that Spock has probably caught it, and that it’s lost on the Vulcan, but he doesn’t care. He’s pissed—no, not pissed, not angry. Just…frustrated. How could someone who just had the death of their mother shoved in their face like that, even after two months of healing, not show _anything at all_?

“I do not believe I understand your meaning, Jim,” comes the cool reply. Spock is leaning against the captain’s chair, resting his back against the metal plating. “There is nothing I have said that should upset you.”

Jim smirks, says, “No, it’s not something you said, is it? Is it something you didn’t say? Or didn’t do?” walks up into Spock’s personal space, “Maybe you don’t recognize what upsets people because to do that you have to empathize. You have to feel.”

And there it is, the telltale twitch of the Vulcan’s eyebrow that suggests a thought process much along the lines of “don’t let it show”. So now Jim is grasping at straws and holding on for his life because this could only go one of two ways. “Vulcans are not subject to emotion.”

Jim throws his head back in a bark of laughter, startling Spock. “Oh, but we both know that isn’t true.” And once again his face is stone cold, serious. “What, Spock, you don’t feel? Because in my book, that’s not an option.” Jim holds his fist against the Vulcan’s chest as if placing a blow. “That tightening right there when things go to shit?” moves his fist to Spock’s abdomen, “That release here when everything goes according to plan?” flattens his hand on his hip, moves the other to cradle the back of Spock’s neck, “That ache here when you can’t figure out a problem, a puzzle,” stepping closer, their breaths almost shared, “a feeling? That’s emotion, Spock. Admit that and I will walk away.”

“I…cannot.”

A smirk. “Thought as much,” and takes the last breath before closing the distance.

It really isn’t the best of kisses, just a pressure of _really warm_ lips on his own, but Jim can’t think of anything to compare it to.

x

Jim blinks, an intrigued look crossing his face for a moment before, “It’s twisty,” and then, “Oh, no--wait--no, I. Spock--”

“While your attempts to console me are valiant, I am in no need of apologies. You simply stated a fact of observation.” There’s a gleam in Spock’s eyes, one Jim has grown to know means Spock’s attempting humor. Instead of grinning like he would normally, however, Jim leans forward with no warning, balancing precariously with his knees on either side of the Vulcan on the bed, and claims those hot soft scalding sweet lips as his own.

A small sound escapes the back of Spock’s throat, inciting a growl from Jim. And he parts his lips, runs his tongue along the seam of Spock’s mouth, delves into the fucking pit and this heat consumes him. And Spock, he leans forward, encourages, grips Jim’s hips to guide him _closer closer God Spock don’t let go_.

Jim’s greeted with his scent, something he could only define as Spock, a sort of spice and sweat, but that’s highly illogical, because Vulcans don’t sweat. And Jim realizes it’s because this particular Vulcan has been consuming Jim, a fucking sweat machine, for hours, and he allows that thought to sink in. He loves the scent, he decides--that mix of Spock and Jim that he would revisit in the future and would instantly set him on edge.

And Spock is reaching to Jim’s face, trailing his fingers down cheekbones and chin to rest on his slim shoulders. There is an intensity in his eyes when he quirks an eyebrow, “You seem to enjoy sniffing me, Jim.”

Jim smirks in reply, a grunt escaping his throat. “You just,” he nips at a collarbone, “have this,” again, lingering to suck an olive-colored bruise on the skin, “scent. It’s...” _for lack of a better word,_ “fascinating.” And because he’s Jim Kirk, he finds himself chuckling at his own mockery.

Spock’s fingers hold tightly to Jim’s hips, sliding south only to get the leverage to leave small, bruising indentions. Jim groans, dips his head to bite into a bony shoulder. “G--God, Spock.” And Spock releases his hold for only a moment to stick his first two fingers in Jim’s mouth.

“Suck,” he instructs, and Jim can’t help but flutter his eyes shut because he knows what’s coming and _geez Spock take your time why don’t you_ releases a soft sound in the back of his throat. Jim obeys, using his tongue to tease the tips of Spock’s fingers, delve between them, drawing a moan from him. A broken word, “P--lease,” and they’re not sure who it comes from because now Jim’s released the digits with a soft pop and Spock is angling his arm between Jim’s legs.

Jim’s just begging, practically, when Spock slides his first finger in and _shit shit shit thank you_ he needs that. He lets himself relax while Spock works his finger slowly in and out, stretching, both of their breaths shaky. “God, Spock, I’m ready, just--oh.” And he has to relax again because _surprise you asshole a little warning would suffice_ he didn’t expect the second digit.

He’s not sure if it’s just the touch telepathy or if he’s just imagining it or if he can actually feel it, but Jim is sure that when he drops his head onto Spock’s shoulder, there’s a smile curving against his neck where Spock has done the same. And Jim growls into the skin stretching under his lips and grips tight on Spock’s arms, thrusting his hips forward slightly, trying to get his meaning across. In doing so, the skin of Spock’s stomach slides against the length of Jim’s cock, eliciting a guttural moan and a breathy _Spock goddammit_.

Jim can’t take it, can’t think straight anymore, and he’s pulling away from Spock’s fingers, reaching to the nightstand and grabbing the lube he knew would be there. Spreading the cool liquid along Spock’s own penis, Jim mouths words _God Spock please please just let me do this_ into the _hot hot why isn’t it steaming in here_ expanse of the Vulcan’s neck. “I--shit, Spock, I--,” _need want have to love_. But Spock isn’t listening, far gone as he is, taking shaky breaths. And Jim can feel it, the _need want have to love_ lust through whatever connection they have.

Jim raises up onto his knees, catches Spock’s eye and slowly sinks back onto Spock’s cock, the slow burn and the _fuck fuck yes thank you_ pleasure of _full finally I needed I wanted I love_ getting what he _needs wants has to have loves_ longed for. But before he can even think to thrust his hips, before he could get acclimated to the feeling of Spock inside him, there are firm hands on his waist keeping him in place. Jim just stares, keeps his eyes fixed on the brown ones before him and just smirks because he knows that he’s being teased, can see it in those _fathomless perfect brown human_ eyes.

And Jim just sits there while Spock is buried to the hilt in his ass and _Spock please just help me out give me a_ bites Jim on the shoulder, sucks a rose-tinted blush to his skin, licks a line from Jim’s collarbone to the shell of his ear. And Jim is undone, giving no thought to the bruising grip on his hips, letting out a whispered “fuck it” and shifting his ass forward. He crushes his mouth against Spock’s, worships his lips with his own tongue, gasps into the _hot why is it so hot_ kiss when Spock’s palm wraps around Jim’s cock and slowly starts stroking it, still not letting Jim move. And this is _beautiful filthy perfect_ too slow for Jim, not enough, and he nips at Spock’s bottom lip, a pleading sound in the back of his throat. “Please,” he whispers.

But Spock doesn’t relent, holds firm, quite literally, to Jim. Under that gaze, Jim squirms, causing Spock’s cock to _seriously can you just give me this please I need I want I love_ move inside him. “Spock, Spock--please.” And it takes a moment to realize Spock’s released his hips--that is, until he feels those fingers splayed against his cheek.

He hears a whispered, “May I?” and nods, eyes fixed on the _perfect deep brown I’m drowning drowning can’t breathe in those_ eyes that bore into his soul. Jim begins rocking his hips, slowly at first, wary of being forced to stop again; but once he feels no resistance, once he knows, he quickens his pace, and he’s coherent enough to see Spock’s eyes flutter shut, breaking that point of contact he had, leaving the intense _dear Lord_ feeling, the only thing left. And as if through a tunnel, he can hear, “My mind to your mind; my thoughts to your thoughts.”

They’re gone, in a force of feeling and _is this what it feels like to explode_ Jim can’t tell who’s thoughts belong to whom. It runs together, this _adoration worry shame pleasure lust wonder wonder wonder_ train of _need want have to_ , “Love you.”

And they really were exploding, splintering into a pattern of stars only they could see.

x

The bridge is brand-new, repaired, ready for take-off. Scotty’s informed Jim that everything is in order and they should be set to go within the hour. Something in the captain’s chest uncurls, falls low into his stomach and settles there. It’s a little like anticipation and a lot like anxiety, but with a touch of relief that makes it okay.

And the turbolift doors open and an officer in Science blues steps forward. “Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

“Permission granted.”

The stars are before them and the knot in Jim’s stomach is dissipating. Jim thinks he can hold the galaxy in his hands, he feels so big.

Three years later he looks at the streaks of stars on the polarized bay window and feels so small.

“Position, Sulu?”

“Orbiting Sigma Nox, sir.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaand that's it. thanks, you guys. so much.
> 
> The title is from Don't Stop Please's song of the same name.


End file.
